


Opening Title

by beemblebummed



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Dissociation, Psychosis, Self-Harm, he depressed and anxious as fuck y'all, i don't know how to tag any of the other mental illnesses tho ??, i'll leave it up to interepretation where the psychosis stems from mental disorder wise, just in case
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-15
Updated: 2017-09-15
Packaged: 2018-12-30 01:28:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12097713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beemblebummed/pseuds/beemblebummed
Summary: Stanford is suffocating in his own despair and can't figure out how to cope with it in a way that is safe or healthy.This is an extremely vent + Ford-oriented fic, and while I might continue the story under this narrative, idk. a lot of it was just vent ;; please read safely !





	Opening Title

**Author's Note:**

> \- it's supposed to read as incredibly scatterbrained and literally all over the place in ford's head. if it feels like you're reading a very disorientated story, then that's good  
> \- as the extra tags said, there is self harm in this fic, and while at first it is only implied and idealized, it isn't written out until further down the line  
> \- ford has essentially unknowingly starved himself and has neglected sleep out of terror  
> \- if i wrote the psychotic aspect to be offensive or not nice in general, i would appreciate being informed! i myself am mentally ill and i cannot stand the fkn thought of being an asshole like that  
> \- there is not a happy ending per se. it segues into ford calling on stan for help (which is what the title is actually supposed to reference) but it doesn't go past ford making that connection as something he can do

It isn’t logical. It isn’t beneficial at the base of its reasons and consequences. Tomorrow, a few days, weeks, months, years down the road—a scar on his arm wouldn’t benefit him or anyone else. It’s going to provide a quick, short-lived shot of adrenaline mixed with relief. Relief that his skin is still skin. Relief that his paranoid episodes of not being real, of being a ghost, of never existing at all, are not true.

 

Ghosts can’t bleed. Ghosts can’t hurt. His anchor are those words and the knife in his hand. He wants to carve everything off. It’s almost embarrassing. What if he’s just doing this because he knows this is what he hears about when people are depressed? “They slit their wrists.”

 

What if he just wants to pretend he has anything wrong so he can someday have someone ask about it, and they’ll feel sorry for him, and love or comfort him out of pity? What if he _likes_ that pity? What if he only does this for some long term goal that someone will see it and confront him about it?

 

Echoes bounce around in his brain—is it just in his brain?—and his hand trembles. He hasn’t slept in so long. When was the last time he ate? Does he even have food? Did Fiddleford go out to get groceries a week before he left or a day?

 

Fiddleford. He _trusted_ him. But he left. He whispers a soft curse at his next thoughts; Stanley, Fiddleford, Bill, _all of them_ , he can’t trust them, he can’t think about them, they only make it worse. They never cared, they were never his friends, they didn’t care anything about him aside from his brain. Stanley hated it, Fiddleford loved it and then sudenly hated it, and Bill was a liar all along.

 

Trust no one. Trust no one.

 

His pages are already splattered with his blood, from the crazy tantrums Bill had every time he had even the briefest of controls. Bruises, sprains, aches, cuts, all of them were just fun and games for that twisted entity, and Ford had been stupid enough in believing all of the excuses that only made him doubt himself more.

 

It hurts. Everything hurts. The scars from before hurt, the very last injuries Bill left still ache, and the emptiness when Fiddleford walked out on him makes it hard to breathe. No one cares, no one loves him, and he was stupid for ever believing it.

 

Tears mix in with the blood and a sob shakes his frame. He is so lost. He is so confused. He misses being a child. He misses never leaving Stanley’s side. He misses never having to be alone. He is so dependent on people, and he _can’t_ be. He can’t let himself be.

 

Whispered memories tickle his ears; it’s Stan’s voice, and his mother. Her playing fortune teller with them. Them sharing the stories of their adventures with her. Her laughter is a comfort, but it doesn’t stay in mind long enough. She fades, and Filbrick’s angry voice rings out. His big fists, his loud words. His disappointment. He was never satisfied. They had to prove their worth every day. The punishments, the way he held it over their heads, the way he would prioritize the one who did better. Sometimes “doing better” was just never back talking and just doing _nothing_. He was so _cruel._

 

Stanford sobs aloud, hunching over as blood seeps through breaks in his skin like leaks from a line of connect-the-dots. His arm tenses and he balls his fist, overgrown nails digging into his skin as the beads grow heavier, the cuts open wider, and his blood slides down his wrist, pooling on the desk. It stings like something is pricking his skin repetitively, but it doesn’t hurt enough to push him to tears. Guilt, fear, anguish—so many words for so many feelings, embodied in the memories he _doesn’t want_. That’s the fuel.

 

Together forever. Stanford and Stanley Pines.

 

_“Joke’s on those braniacs if they think you wanna go to some nerd school!”_

 

Together forever, even if “together” means being on opposite sides of the states. Stanford and Stanley Pines.

_“Come on, don’t leave me hangin’! High six?”_

Ford wants to drag the knife across his wrist again, he wants to cut up his arms and his chest and his stomach, he wants to pull all of his hair out and he wants to _die_.

 

More whispers. Definitely not memories.

 

“Please!” he screams into his surroundings, still gripping the knife albeit shakily. “Please, leave me alone! Leave m-me be!”

 

They just get louder. He utters another scream but it’s wordless this time. The knife clatters to the desk surface and he brings both hands to his head, clamping them over his ears as he all but drops out of his seat to crouch in the floor. Blood smears against his cheek and into his already messy hair, his fingers gripping into his scalp as tight as they possibly can. He can feel everything get worse all at once; his thoughts, his heart, his breathing. Everything hurts and the whispers only grow louder.

 

“ _Go away!_ ” the cry rips from his throat with an intensity that causes even him to be frightened. Is that _really_ how he sounds? Is that _really_ his voice?

 

The whispers grow with intensity, and then all at once they begin to fade. Violently shaking hands lower from the sides of his face, the blood from his wrist smeared up into his palm. On his nails he also has blood, but he doesn’t notice yet. Instead, he searches the walls of the room he is in, trying to find any evidence of something hiding in them, poising, watching him. His skin crawls; he feels like he has a thousand eyes on him. The whispers are gone but that sensation has only grown worse.

 

“P-please, go away,” he repeats in a softer voice, desperate. “Please, please, stop looking at me, leave me alone, _please_....”

 

He looks down at his hands. He doesn’t remember having blood on his nails before touching his head. Or, wait—did he have clean nails before his wrist bled? He can’t remember. He opens and thoroughly studies his palms, and sees thin, shallow cuts. They line up where his nails would go if he made fists.

 

Everything hurts. Blood still seeps from his wrist and now he’s bleeding from his palms too. He stands up, having to grip the edge of the desk to prevent falling forward when he does. What did he do? Why did he do this? Why is he so _stupid_?

 

“S..Stanley, I need Stanley,” he whispers to himself, stumbling along his desk to go and find the materials he would need to contact him. Where does he live? How can he figure that out? He’ll ask Fiddleford.

 

 _No_. He won’t want to speak to him. Fiddleford would sooner forget all of this.

 

“Stanley,” Ford repeats, the name a hoarse mutter now. “Stanley....”

 

His knees buckle and he collapses to them, wincing but not making a sound otherwise. Too shaky. He whines softly as he tries to stand again, but he can’t. Why is this happening? He just wants to fix this. He can’t let this keep happening. Too many scars, too many sores, too many places he’ll have to hide constantly now. Stanley can’t know. Are Ma and Pa alive? They can’t know, they can’t see. They won’t see, he won’t let them. Fiddleford doesn’t want to be in his life anymore, he won’t have to worry about him.

 

A second attempt to get to his feet is successful, but then he just staggers along, hugging the walls because that’s all he _can_ do. “Stan...ley...I’ll find you, I’ll find you, I’ll find you...”

 

Tears still flow freely down his bloody, dirty face, but he doesn’t seem to notice. Making his slow and unstable way to the phone in the his room is all he can focus on. He needs to get one of the laptops Fiddleford left. He can look up Stanley. He can find him. He can do this.

 

“P-please, help me,” he pleads to no one but the walls. “I’m...I’m....”

 

The couch looks so comfortable. He just wants to lie down. Maybe just a quick break. Yes, a quick break and then he can think straight and work without hiccups. He exhales as he just drops onto the cushions, face down, one arm dangling over the side. His eyes flutter shut and he continues to mutter, cry, and shake.

 

He’ll find him. He can help fix this. The portal will remain intact but no one will use it. He’ll figure out a way to stall Bill, or stop him. Stanley will help. They can be friends again. It’ll be okay.

 

Right?


End file.
